


Porthos' Blankie.

by RitaMarx



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Grab a hankie, It’s not what you think., What can you do with Family?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:59:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6230311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RitaMarx/pseuds/RitaMarx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos' favorite blanket goes missing.  One shot.  Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Porthos' Blankie.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this certainly turned out a lot more serious than I had intended, and a lot longer than I figured it would. I hope you'll like it. 
> 
> My generic disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don’t own it. If you don’t recognize it, I probably do own it. Not making any $$$ off this.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Aramis came through the door without even knocking, "Hurry up Porthos. We don't want to be late for roll call again this week." 

He watched as Porthos, with great reverence, neatly folded the lovingly worn blanket. It's not very big, just big enough to comfortably cover a small boy on a cold night. It was made of scraps and patched up time and time again. 

"Porthos, when are you going to throw that into the rag pile? That...thing, is so worn out, a hearty sneeze would disintegrate it." 

"Leave off, Aramis," the huge musketeer growls. Smiling, he gently returns the blanket to its place in his wardrobe. They don't know. How could they possibly understand what this time-worn memory means to him? 

This colorful blanket is pieced together with stitches that would make Aramis cry in shame at his own handiwork. His own dear, saintly mother had made this for him during the last year of her life. He remembers so well how she would sit at their scared table and carefully cut the brightly colored scraps to fit together. He recalled watching her squint her eyes in the dim light of a candle stub, trying to sew the pieces together. A 'quilt,' she called it. A blanket of many colors to keep him warm. Many times he had to fight the other, older children in the Court to keep it. " 'ey just be jealous that 'ey don ‘ave sum ting as beautiful as this, my dear boy," she would say. 

Oh, the memories. Every time he looked at it, Porthos had a warm feeling spread through his chest and felt his heart glow. Looking back on it after so many years, he knew his mom knew she would not be long for this world. She wanted this to be her last gift to him, to the boy she would be leaving alone to fend for himself in the Court of Miracles. 

Now, after a lifetime, the blanket had, indeed, become threadbare and worn out. It had become so fragile, that often he was afraid to even touch it. Yes, he had to admit, others would see it and declare it past time to toss it out. But, sometimes, after a particularly hard mission, he just needed the comfort it offered. He could never get rid of it. It meant the world to him. 

With one final, gentle caress, he closed the door. 

Hearing the men gather for the morning muster and assignments, he grins to his brother-in-arms. "What are ya waitin' for, 'Mis. We don't want to be late." He playfully shoves his friend out into the morning light. 

# # # # # # # # # # 

Later that day, Aramis carefully stepped out of Porthos' room. A corner of faded material he quickly shoved back into his coat and swiftly walked out of the garrison. He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was not seen as he made his way to the market square. 

# # # # # # # # # # 

"Rags. Rags for the poor. Rags for the poor." 

Aramis tipped his hat to the elderly man and passed him a few coins. 

The old man thanked him with a toothless grin, "Oh, thank you good sir. May the Good Lord bless you." 

The solitary figure, stooped with age, continued shuffling through the street with a cart collecting rags he would sell to the local orphanages. It didn't earn him much, but every small bit of coin was welcome to a hungry stomach. 

# # # # # # # # # # 

It had been a very long mission and, it seemed, their report to Captain Treville had been equally long. Closing the door to Treville 's office, Aramis looks at his friend. Both are tired and grateful they had the next day off to recuperate. 

"How about a drink, Porthos?" 

"Naw," he rubbed the back of his neck. "I think I'll just be puttin' my 'ead down for a while. Like 'til morning." 

Grabbing the larger musketeer by the arm, Aramis tries to steer him toward the gates. "But, it's your birthday! Have you forgotten what a great time we always have on this day?" 

Porthos chuckles and shakes his head. " 'at's right. It is my birthday, ain't it?" He looks up to the sky. "Isn't it a bit early to start the celebration? I mean, the sun is still up." 

Aramis put his hand over his heart. "What? It's never too early in the day to celebrate the birthday of a friend!" 

Seeing his best friend start getting all dramatic, as was his wont, Porthos relented. "Aw right, aw right. 'ust let me cleanup a bit 'fore we 'ead over." 

"Great! I'll tell the others to meet us there." And with that, Aramis walked off with a spring in his step and a huge smile on his face. 

" 'es plannin' something," the birthday boy thought as he shuffled his way to his room. 

Porthos was looking forward to his birthday celebration, as he did every year. Good food, good company, good wine, and most importantly, family. And, he chuckled, cracking his knuckles, maybe a chance to pound a few Red Guards into the floor. 

After washing his face and hair, he grabbed a thin square of cloth to dry off. Looking into a small mirror, he fluffed up his curls. "Aramis ain't the only one with great hair." Although, he would never admit to it out loud, he was a bit vain and proud of his curls. He smiled at his reflection and winked. Yes, the ladies loved to run their dainty fingers through his curls. 

His birthday. Well, not his actual birthday; only his mom knew that. Thinking of her, he pulled open the wardrobe to lay his hand on her last gift and thank her for another good year. 

# # # # # # # # # # 

A loud roar echoed through the garrison courtyard. 

The men training stopped and whirled about to cover the entrance, eyes searching for the threat that surely must accompany such a noise. In the stables, the horses whinnied and showed the whites of their eyes in fear. Captain Treville shot from his office, ready to take command of the emergency. 

Porthos charged into the courtyard. Musketeers scattered before him like dry leaves before a gale. "ARAMIS! WHERE IS IT?!" 

Aramis jumped from his seat at the table and vaulted across it to the far side. He was always amazed at just how fast the large man could move. Porthos could move like greased lightening when he needed to. And now he thundered like the storm that comes with the lightening. Shuffling quickly, he managed to put the table between him and this enraged bull charging across the yard. Glancing toward the archway, he backpedaled toward the entrance. 

"Porthos? What's wrong, my friend?" 

"WHERE IS IT?” He bellowed. 

"Where's what?” Aramis asked, putting his hands up innocently. He shuffled closer to the entrance; his only hope of escaping bodily injury. 

"My blanket!" 

"Oh, that old, worn thing?" 

"YES!” Porthos roared. "It's missing and you were the last one to insult it. What did you do with it?" 

Aramis again glanced toward the entrance, "Almost there," he thought. 

Porthos advanced, stalking him across the yard. The mad gleam in his eye had many a man faint in fear on the battlefield. And, yes, only a fool would not be afraid. Aramis was no fool. 

With his hands up, palms out, Aramis tried to assure him, "I can assure you, my dear brother, it is safe." 

"Where. Is. It?" 

Porthos charged. Aramis spun on his heel and ran for his life. 

# # # # # # # # # # 

The doors to the tavern burst open as Aramis bounded through them, just barely holding his hat onto his head. 

"IN COMING!" he shouted. 

Patrons threw themselves aside to prevent from being plowed over by the musketeer. Chairs flipped over as the early drinkers, still sober enough to realize the danger, pushed themselves backwards. Mugs flew from their hands as wine and ale splattered everywhere. Somewhere, a boot thudded against a wall, separated from its owner. Many struggled to right themselves as their feet waved in the air. Tables were shoved away, out of the path of this charging musketeer. One customer had a table slam into his potbelly; his drink sprayed from his mouth like a fountain in the royal gardens. Food got tossed in the air and rained down, scattering on the floor. Mutton stew painted one drunk slumped over a table, oblivious to the chaos. A cat that had snuck in went screaming for cover beneath a bar maid's skirts. She screamed and threw her tray up in the air. More food went flying. The mugs in her hand dropped to the floor shattering. 

Athos stepped in front of Aramis and put his shoulder down, bracing himself for impact as his brother crashed into him. The momentum was such that both men actually slid across the time worn planking of the floor. D’Artagnan had to lend his weight to prevent them from crashing into the table behind them. 

"So, he's coming?" inquired Athos. 

Aramis gave a quick nod, "Right behind me." 

Again, the doors burst open. A large silhouette darkened the doorway. 

The tavern owner groaned and ducked back down behind the bar. 

No one moved. Not a sound was made, except for the one dish still wobbling on its edge before clattering to a halt against a broken chair. 

Porthos stomped through the silent tavern. Patrons hid behind overturned furniture, each trying to make themselves as small as possible. He stopped just short of Aramis. The look of absolute rage made the other man gulp. Leaning over, he raised one finger into his face. "Aramis, you know I love you as a brother,” he spoke quietly. "That is the only reason I will allow you to explain before I beat you black and blue. Where. Is. My. Blanket?" 

Aramis tore his hat off his head and held it over his heart. "Porthos, I *swear* before all that is sacred, your blanket is safe." He held his breath as Porthos growled in the back of his throat. 

You could have heard a pin drop, if a pin was so inclined to drop. Everyone in the tavern held their breath. 

"SURPRISE!" 

He was caught off guard as Constance wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed hard. "S... Su... Surprise?" he sputtered. 

"Happy Birthday!" 

Cheers of, "Happy Birthday, Porthos!" chorused from their private corner. 

The birthday boy looked around, confusion and shock evident on his face. His jaw dropped. There, decorating their customary nook were colorful scraps of material strung up on twine between the side walls. 

His brothers stood away from each other to reveal a large cake with several candles glowing brightly atop it. Scattered around the cake were several bundles, also wrapped in colorful scraps. 

Dumbstruck, he could only stand there as he pointed to the multi-layered cake. 

"I do believe that is the first time he does not have a witty comeback," Aramis smirked. 

"What is this?” Porthos asked softly. "Constance?" 

Hugging his arm again, she smiled, "It's your surprise birthday party, of course." Rising up on her toes she planted a kiss on his cheek. That drew his attention away from the brightly glowing candles. "That's a birthday cake. You're supposed to make a wish and then blow out all the candles in one breath. If all the candles go out, your wish will come true," she chirped 

The huge musketeer looked from face to face gathered around him. All his friends were grinning like mad fools. Well, except for Athos, but he was near to it, very near. The corners of his mouth were twitching. 

Waving his hands toward the table, Aramis encouraged him, "Well, go on. Make your wish and blowout the candles. After the week we've just had, I could use something sweet." He looked at the cake with hungry eyes. 

Porthos growled at him; but it wasn't even a half-hearted effort. He stood there for a moment just looking at the cake and its bright candles. Finally, with a peaceful look on his face, he closed his eyes and leaned forward. With a gentle puff, the candles flickered out. 

His friends cheered as Constance cut the cake. Smiling up at him, she shoved a fork and a plate with a huge piece of cake into his hands. 

"So, what did you wish for?" D’Artagnan asked. 

"No!” She slapped at D’Artagnan and gave him a harsh look. "You can't tell anyone or it won't come true," warned Constance. "Don't tell us." She motioned to the plate in his hand, "Dig, in, Porthos. I hope you like it." 

He broke off a piece and closed his lips around it. Letting it coat his tongue and palate to savor the taste, his eyes closed. Sheer ecstasy glowed on his face. "Mmmm. Chocolate cake with strawberry jam in between. This is as close to 'eaven as I'll ever get." 

Ever the drama queen, Aramis swatted him on the shoulder with his hat, "That's blasphemy, Porthos!" Glancing playfully around the room, he warned, "Don't let the Cardinal hear you say that." 

D’Artagnan and Porthos simultaneously blew a raspberry. 

Athos nearly choked as he swallowed his wine the wrong way. Constance helped him clear his throat with a hearty slap on the back. 

Everyone laughed. 

# # # # # # # # # # 

Athos brought out several bottles of his finest wine delivered by special courier from his estate. Barmaids came and went as platter after platter was set on the table, each piled high with food. More than one maid stopped a moment to wish him a happy birthday in their own way with a lingering touch or a wink. More than one of the more bold ones gave him a special birthday kiss. 

As the presents were unwrapped, Porthos piled all the colorful 'gift wrapping' into a neat pile, both as a memento of this evening, and because of his growing up in the Court of Miracles, you had to hold on to everything, because you just might need it later. 

As the last gift was put in place with all the others, Aramis looked around, playfully. "Where is it? There's something missing here." He made a big production of looking around for something. His brothers joined in the search. 

"Um, is this what you're looking for?" D’Artagnan asked as he hauled up a large bundle from beneath the table. The package tied up with rough, brown paper and twine. 

"Ah! Yes, there it is! Hand it over." D’Artagnan lifted it up unto the table and passed it from one set of hands to the next, making its way from one friend to next, before stopping with Aramis, who placed it in front of Porthos. He gestured to it. "This is from all of us." 

Porthos looked at the large package trying to figure out just what it could possibly be. 

"Open it," Athos said softly. The corners of his mouth held a definite tilt upward. 

Slowly, Porthos reached over and tugged on the string. The paper unfurled like a flower blooming for the first time. His eyes grew wide and a gasp of disbelief escaped his lips. 

There, nestled safely within the wrapping, was his blanket. He picked it up gently. A look of confusion crossed his face. It felt heavier, somehow. He gave it a soft shake, draping it over the package. 

"My blanket... What did you do to my blanket? It feels different, some 'ow." 

"Aramis brought it to me asking if I could repair it," Constance replied. "I was also able to put a new backing over the old one so it won't unravel anymore," 

Sure enough, on the backside of the thin blanket was a swath of new material. The edges were bound with a matching ribbon. 

"But wait, that's not all," Aramis said. "Take a look at the rest of the package." 

"There's more?” Porthos asked looking down. Indeed, beneath the small blanket was another large sheet of paper. A present within a present. As always, with great reverence, he folded the small blanket and carefully placed it to the side of the great package. 

Lifting up a corner of the paper, he gasped and drew back. His eyes blinked rapidly. 

He stood up as he lifted the second surprise. What he saw had him abruptly sitting down again in his chair. Tears slipped down his cheeks and into his beard. 

In his hands, he held an exact copy of his blanket. But, this one was larger; more 'Porthos-all-grown-up' size rather than 'five-year-old-Porthos' size. 

Putting his hands to his mouth, he looked at each of his friends, his family sitting around the table. The tears flowed freely now as Constance handed him a handkerchief. He chuckled at that. 

" 'ow did you guys know 'ow much this would mean to me?" he asked softly. 

Athos lowered his head and gave him The Look. "It wasn't hard to put two and two together, Porthos.” With a nod of his head, he indicated his brothers. "We've seen how much you care for that blanket. Although, you have never spoken of it, and judging by its size, we figured it was a gift from your mother... Were we wrong?" 

"No," Porthos replied shaking his head. His hand drifted over each piece of material. Each piece was something unwanted; a scrap thrown away. Together, they were a treasure. "It was the last thing she ever gave me. I remember vividly 'ow she would work well into the night so carefully sewing it t’gether. And this *is* an exact copy of it, only larger." He pulled Constance into a one-armed hug and held her tight as his placed a kiss on her head. "Thank you." 

Now Constance was crying. Athos handed her a handkerchief. 

" 'old on 'ere, a minute." He fingered one large swatch in the middle of the blanket. "Constance? 'ow did you get this piece? This color dye is made *only* in the Court of Miracles. No one outside the Court knows the formula; it's a carefully guarded secret." 

"I had help locating it." 

"I found it for 'er, old friend," a soft voice said behind him. 

As he turned around, Flea hugged him. He lowered his head to kiss his first love. A few cat-calls finally broke them apart. 

"It's always good to see you, Flea," he smiled. He knew the sparkle in her eye shone only for him. 

A discrete cough brought their attention back to the festivities. 

"Flea helped me find that swatch," Constance went on to explain. "I mentioned to D’Artagnan that I could not find a match to that particular color. It was his idea to ask Flea for help." 

The youngest of their group fidgeted in his seat and nodded. "I thought that since the material was likely made in the Court of Miracles, perhaps a match could be found there." 

Flea continued the tale, " 'e dressed 'im self up like one of us and wandered ‘round the Court until 'e found me." 

Athos looked at him with a raised eyebrow and saluted his audacity with his cup. 

Porthos chuckled reaching across the table to swipe his hand over his head. "You got spunk, pup, I'll give you that." 

" 'e did well enough," Flea shrugged. "Once 'e explained wot was goin' on, I offered to 'elp, and 'e took me to meet Constance." 

Constance stepped over to Flea's side and put her arm tight around her. "When she saw the color I was looking for, she immediately said she knew where to get it. In less than an hour I had what I needed." 

Seeing the two women come together as friends gave Porthos a warm feeling. Here in front of him were his two Ladies of the Court. One from the Queen's Court and one from the Court of Miracles. These two unlikely Ladies were well on their way to becoming good friends. 

# # # # # # # # # # 

It was well into the night when everyone finally had their fill of good food and good wine. Surprisingly, no one was drunk, as on most nights when someone had to be helped to their bed. Even Athos was only tipsy, despite the volume of wine passed around. 

Athos lent his arm to Constance and walked her home. 

D’Artagnan escorted Flea to the edge of the Court where she took her leave. 

Aramis helped Porthos carry all the presents back to the garrison. 

Porthos gave him a bear hug. Stepping back, neither said a word. None were needed as they bid each other a good night. 

In the soft candle glow in his room, Porthos readied himself for bed. Placing his mother's blanket back into its customary place in his wardrobe he turned around. 

The string of colorful scraps now hung on the wall over his washstand. He would see it every morning when he readied himself for the day, and every evening as he readied himself for bed. It was a cheerful addition to the otherwise dreary room. His new, adult-sized blanket lay across his bed. 

He climbed into bed and pulled the blanket up...and sighed. His eyelids began to droop as he snuggled under the covers and smiled. 

"What did I wish for? I already have it, Mother. Family." His eyes drifted closed one last time as slumber finally claimed him. 

He dreamt of that night a lifetime ago when his mom first wrapped a blanket of many colors about his shoulders on a cold night, as she settled him into bed. He could feel the gentle touch of her hand as her fingers carded through his curls and drifted down to caress his cheek. "I'm so proud of the man you've become," he heard her say softly. "Good night my baby boy. I love you."


End file.
